


Coffins and Cradles

by WyrmLivvy



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Character Death, Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrmLivvy/pseuds/WyrmLivvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hashirama builds coffins and Hashirama builds cradles. He would rather make the latter for others than the former. Most of all he wants to form a village.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired by the chapter Butsuma and Itama were introduced but it took me a while to write this out. Here it is, the fic that has been kicking around for over four months.

The day Madara gained his Sharingan, Hashirama acquired mokuton.

\--

Hashirama murmured a soft apology for what felt like the thousandth time.  Hashirama, before the open cabinet that housed his family’s shrine, had no problem with kneeling. He had done so as much regularly in the mornings, but now night was approaching and he did not know when his father, Butsuma, would allow him to leave.  Still, Hashirama begged forgiveness.

Images flashed in Hashimara’s mind, kunai in flight and thrown rocks that stopped it. Hashirama returned to his prayers. Despite Butsuma meaning this as punishment, Hashirama would not apologize for refusing to kill Madara and interfering with Butsuma’s move to kill Tajima and Izuna. Hashirama apologized at his weakness for not having done more. Was Madara still his friend?

Hashirama shook his head to rid his mind of such doubt. He looked around to see that the half-burned incense told him he still had time to kneel. He hadn’t eaten since he returned from the river but at the time he had no appetite. He regretted that a little now when hunger bit at his core and his limbs felt like lead.

He closed his eyes and brought his palms together. He returned to praying and angled his body lower. He prayed for a way to reconcile with Madara. For a way that their dreams would be able to come true. 

He did not know how long he stayed in this position. He glanced out of the corner of his eye he saw that the incense was almost entirely burned. At the sound of movement he moved to rise, if it was his father coming to dismiss him he was going to speak first. But before Hashirama opened his mouth he opened his palms, and to his shock, wood sprung from his hands like a page out of a creation myth!

The thick, entwined branches flouted green foliage – sudden life in a room that previously had but the dead grain of the floorboards he had been looking often at for the past hours, or the hard edges of the wooden ancestor tablets.

Hashirama turned his head to see a mirrored expression of shock on his younger brother’s face.  “I-uh, um…” 

Tobirama recovered first as his eyes narrowed in comprehension.

Hashirama stood and tried for words again but before he could speak, Tobirama threw something at his face.

Tobirama ran out like lightning afterwards.10

The bun hit Hashirama in the cheek. He caught it as it fell and ate silently as he awaited Tobirama’s inevitable return, probably with their father in tow. He stared at the tree that had taken root in the middle of the room and fidgeted fitfully. There was no denying such proof. He could even smell earth and grass. ‘Could it be? Do I really have it?’ Hashirama thought.

“Hashirama?”

Hashirama turned around to see Butsuma looking at him like he was seeing his son for the first time.

“You’ve manifested mokuton.” It was not so much a question as statement with a tone that suggested that any answer but yes was unacceptable.

Hashirama found himself frozen, he was acutely aware that this was a life-changing shift. There was no denying the branches that he had summoned. ‘But what if it was a fluke?’ He thought.

Meanwhile, his father’s expression was changing into an expectant glare.

Hesitantly, Hashirama placed his hands palm to palm again and concentrated. The family altar changed in reaction, its wooden paneling overgrowing into its surroundings, branches grew from its sides.

Butsuma spoke, his usual stern tone held pride, happiness even,“Mokuton is a rare manifestation, usually only water or earth affinity revealed themselves but to have both natures, to have mokuton? This has not happened for generations.”

 “The ancestors have blessed you, brother.” Tobirama commented, “They must mean to assist you against the enemies to come.”

 Butsuma nodded in agreement, “Yes, your dedication has caused our ancestors with mokuton to pass it to you. With it that Uchiha’s Sharingan is nothing!” 

Hashirama flinched at his father’s praise. Butsuma was too pleased with him despite yelling at him earlier about said Uchiha.

As Tobirama and Butsuma talked about the prospects of Hashirama’s new power, Hashirama concentrated again and undid the growth so the wooden shrine would return to its previous shape. He glanced at it warily, unsure of whether he should thank whatever ancestors had heard him.  

\--

News of Hashirama gaining mokuton was met with cheer and celebration. To keep despair at bay, the Senju accepted joy when they could have it, especially in war. Hashirama is asked to bless newborns so perhaps they would grow to have mokuton as well. If the children lived long enough to manifest it to defeat their enemies of course.

He was asked to make a cradle for his newborn cousin Toka, so he does.

Since the skill was new, Hashirama struggled with forming the cradle by aligning his ability with his imagination. He had wanted to make an elaborate cradle but attempts resulted in one half of the cradle being uneven and asymmetrical to the other. In the end he settled for a simple but well-built cradle. Toka did not cry often and when placed in the cradle, relaxed into sleep easily. She was serious-faced and reminded Hashirama of Tobirama.

Hashirama made more mokuton items: desk, chairs, tables, plates, spoons. He made these things if he was not too exhausted from the training his father assigned to him in addition to the kenjutsu and other training he already has. Training in the mountain forced him to learn how to use mokuton in battle, not to make domestic furniture.

Hashirama found himself being dropped down the top of mountains, with mokuton needed to slow his drop and to save his bones from being broken too badly. He was left in territories where wild boar hunted. More often Hashirama restrained the boars but their sharp tusks still fought against the chakra strengthened wood. Although Hashirama was encouraged to use mokuton to kill, Hashirama avoided this when he could. In times of war food was often rationed though and wild boars provided plenty.

A few times Hashirama narrowly missed being gored. The training often left him feeling like a dry well. No matter how deep it got as he honed his reserves, it was still often drained to a dew drops.

Hashirama hated this training although he liked mokuton. He liked being able to make things with it, to be able to shelter and feed people, to help them. But the harsh training continued to be assigned to him. During another one of those sessions, when Hashirama had brought back the carcass of a boar on a cart, Butsuma told him, “This is for your own good. You must kill your opponents lest they kill you first.” Hashirama nodded and acknowledge Butsuma’s words, but still resisted. He practiced defensive moves, created walls of wood that enclosed and restrained.

\--

The Senju and their opponents do not try to avoid being lethal when decimating each other’s soldiers meant victory.

The defeat of one’s opponent meant one could return to one’s family even when the defeated did not.

After battles, bodies are recovered while others could not be retrieved. Too burnt bodies crumbled to ash before they could be moved. Too scattered limbs could not be collected except to be feasted on by crows.

Hashirama was tasked with using mokuton to make coffins for the bodies that could be recovered. Other times he makes the wood for pyres, the perfectly balanced and symmetrical mokuton created logs among the broken, crooked bodies of the soldiers, with their missing limbs and torn clothes.  

\--

Sometimes, between battles there were lulls to collect the bodies of fallen fighters. Such lulls were created by mutually agreed upon ceasefires that only lasted as long as it took to de-clutter the battlefields, substantially to allow the resuming task of killing to be easier. Such brief agreements were uneasy and fleeting. There was always the chance of gaining an advantage against one’s enemy, by harvesting the valuable knowledge of techniques from corpses.

\--

Hashirama brought his hands together and imagined a long cart. It appeared with sturdy wheels for rough terrain and usability.

Madara had yet to witness Hashirama using mokuton to make sharp branches to cut yet though. But Madara was smart and could guess, could make connections in a logical procession. Hashirama looked Madara in the eye to see that his Sharingan was activated; there was now three tomoe in each eye. 

“Kekkei genkai,” Madara muttered, anger burned in his voice. Bloodline limit. “The Senju mokuton.  When did you first activate it?”

“The day you got your eyes.” Hashirama replied truthfully.

“Ahh.” Madara’s anger dissipated along with his eyes, which returned to an inky black. He smirked. “That means I beat you. I activated my kekkei genkai before you!”

“Yeah you did.” Hashirama sagged self-depreciatingly. 

Madara snorted, “It would have been to your advantage if you revealed your ability by stabbing me in the gut with a mokuton branch.”   

“I would not do that to a friend.”

“People change. Some things have priority over others. We’re enemies.” Madara said haltingly. He touched a scythe that hung from a chain by his side. “The reason I have not attacked you yet is because that is not my mission. Did I not say that the next time we met I would fight you? The setting is perfect.”

Hashirama stiffened, he was sharply aware that they are surrounded by rotting bodies, in the middle of a warzone. The stench of decay and death surrounded them, crows were feasting everywhere. He knew but still had gotten lost in conversation with Madara, like they often did by the river as friends. Though Madara had insisted they were enemies. Hashirama did not think they were although that time was gone. Hashirama released a depressed sigh, he ached. 

“-see the bodies of your fallen clan members and tell me that we are not enemies, Hashirama. Hashirama?” Madara stared at Hashirama in disbelief. “What are you thinking about? Spacing out in the middle of a battlefield!”

“I don’t want to be your enemy.”

“But you are.” Madara pointed his index finger accusingly.

“No, we’re friends, you’re a brother to m-”

“No.” Madara’s expression darkened, his eyes dark and cold, like a stone at the bottom of a deep river. “I only have one brother…now. You know that.”

“Because you told me, we are friends, still friends and we confided in each other.” Hashirama pointed back, with a wink, before his expression settled into seriousness.

“We were friends.” Madara shot back, eyes softened with exasperation. He lowered his hand and put both to his hips, annoyed.

“Ha, you said we were? We still are.”

“We’re enemies. I said the next time we meet we would be and I’d fight you.” A vein pulsed by Madara’s brow.

 “Is this it? Can this be our fight? This argument.”

Madara expression broke again and he rolled his eyes, “Hashirama…you dork, keep that up I’m doing to have to end the embarrassment by ripping your heart out of your chest.”

Hashirama laughed, he was sure Madara was kidding. Mostly.

Hashirama unstrapped his armor and placed it on the ground. Next he placed down his sheathed sword.

Madara looked at Hashirama like he was either incredibly foolish or supremely confident. “If you think of fighting me while-”

“I am not thinking of such, I just supposed that this task would be easier if I was not weighed down.”

Madara shrugged as if to say ‘there is no helping this fool,’ but he shifts out of his armor as well until he is left in the dark high collared outfit of the Uchiha clan, he rolled up his long sleeves, his scythe was still chained to his side. “If we aren’t sparring, then we will see who excels at the task of collecting bodies.”

Hashirama nodded, seeing the issued challenge as some small sign that Madara still considered him a friend, after all their meetings at the river had been filled with challenges. Hashirama gingerly retrieved a body, one of many, that lay smoldering on darkened earth. He lifted the body onto his summoned cart. He arranged the limbs carefully.

Meanwhile Madara had summoned a clone. Each unfurled gray cloth bags. 

“It’s probably unfair that I have a cart when you have to carry-”

“Don’t underestimate me,”Madara interrupted. “Though you’d probably beat me because there are more Senju casualties than Uchiha,” Madara spoke carelessly. 

Hashirama remained unprovoked and walked up to the Madara, slowly, until they were side by side. His knuckles brushed against Madara’s. Madara startled and turned to glare at Hashirama, his dark eyes twitching.

Hashirama raised his hand to the top of Madara’s forehead. “As I thought we are both undergoing growth sprouts but I am taller than you.”

“That’s not the challenge, it’s whoever gets the most bodies!” Madara spluttered, “And I’m taller than you.” Madara forcefully pulled down Hashirama’s hand that was touching his forehead.“Your clothes are ugly and too small.”

“So are yours.” Hashirama’s tongue was tied, unsure of the fact that Madara spoke easily with him again. Temporarily.

“I didn’t have older brothers that lived old enough to need larger clothes that could be passed down to me.”

“You aren’t wearing the shirt you usually wore when we still met at the river what happen-”

“Izuna has it now. I outgrew it.”

Izuna, the brother that Madara talked about. Hashirama remembered seeing him on the last day by the river.

“How is he?” Hashirama ventured.

“Great.” Madara smiled, “He’s getting better at jutsu everyday. A genius even for Uchiha!” Madara stopped suddenly and glared at Hashirama. “Why are you interested anyway?”

“It’s you I’m interested in, Madara. I just wanted to know more about you and your life.” Hashirama admitted. “We were close then and we can be closer now, now that we know about each other, right?”

“Or you are harvesting information to plot my downfall,” Madara snorted. He leaned toward Hashirama.

Unconsciously, Hashirama backed away, allowing Madara to corner him against a tree. Still, he didn’t even flinch when Madara raised a kunai towards him.

The kunai marked a notch above Hashirama’s head.

Hashirama turned around to examine the notch.

Before he could get a good enough look, Madara pushed him aside and handed him the kunai. “Now make a mark for me.”

Hashirama obeyed. Once he was done he was faced with Madara’s annoyed expression.

“You marked it wrong.” Madara complained.

“Your spikey hair doesn’t count.” Hashirama retorted.

“Well neither does your big bowl cut.”

“My hair has gotten longer though.”

“Still, I’m taller, and my hair is better and-”

The sound of a clone disappearing and a voice disrupted the rest of Madara’s words as he looked past Hashirama. Hashirama turned his head to where Madara was looking.

“Perhaps I can mediate?” This was spoken by a girl that was around the same age as them or perhaps even younger.

Many scrolls peaked out from her side, they were attached to her back, tied carefully as her hair, and she was holding a scroll in one hand and a kunai in the other. An empty gray bag lay at her feet.

“It appears that you two are not enemies.” Although her voice was nervous, the girl spoke with authority. The gloves she wore where smeared with ink and dried blood. She pointed her kunai at Hashirama, “For you to allow him to wield a kunai near the vicinity of your head.” She turned the kunai to Madara, “And for you to not take such an opening to attack. Despite the fact you are Uchiha while he is Senju.” She gestured at Hashirama again. “He is taller by the way.” 

“How-” Madara started, looking above the girl, at her hair, one hand was on his scythe.

 “I could tell by your chakras.” The girl gripped the scroll she had tighter, before quickly rolling it up single handedly and slipping it up her sleeves. Perhaps she was ambidextrous.

“Didn’t see her appear did you?” Hashirama teased Madara.

Madara turned to glare at Hashirama.“She concealed her chakra otherwise I would have noticed!”

“I have a name.” Said the girl, who glowered at Madara disapprovingly. Hashirama could see her eyes clearly because it was framed on her round face by maroon hair, held by golden pins.

Her eyes, the green of a thriving river, glittered alertly. “It’s Mito,” she said.

“You were distracting me. And she’s like a ghost, dressed in white and-” Madara stopped yelling at Hashirama and turned around, as if sensing the glare she was directing at him. He looked at the bag by her feet. “She destroyed my clone!”

 “Indeed.” Mito admitted. Armor too large for her covered the front of her kimono, which may have been once white but the dirt of the battlefield covered her kimono. Mito kneeled by a part of the earth that went in deeper, like a pit. She moved with grace despite her oversized armor. “I had thought it would get in the way of my task.”  

She grit her teeth before releasing a mournful sigh, and looked into the pit.

“I believe my clone was retrieving this before you destroyed it.” Madara growled.  “I assume you are extracting the Senju despite not being one yourself.”

Because he wanted to see what she saw, Hashirama moved to where she was.

“Hello, Mito,” he rolled the name out with unfamiliarity, but it was warm nonetheless, “I’m Hashirama. I would ask what one as you are doing in this battlefield.” His eyes dart to her red hair before he looked into the hole she had kneeled down by. 

Mito understood Hashirama’s question even if he had not worded it, “I am neither Senju nor Uchiha even if this is a battlefield of their making.” 

Hashirama saw two bodies. One a Senju, telling from the scythes on its armor, while the other is an Uchiha from the fan emblem on its armor. The two are locked in a deadly embrace. It appeared that both had stabbed each other simultaneously, using swords to deal the final blows after running out of chakra. In death the two are still connected by the swords. They are becoming as rigid as the swords for rigor mortis had settled in. The two are barely in their teens, they were thirteen perhaps or fourteen. It was uncanny that it could be him and Madara there, lying dead on the ground. He caught Madara’s eye and suspected he was thinking the same.

Hashirama felts his eyes moisten so he blinked and shook his head. He looked up to see Mito staring at him. “Can I ask why you are here, sealing away my fallen clan members?” Hashirama asked, trying to distract himself and her with a question. He looked at Madara but Madara was not paying attention to him, instead he was looking at Mito.

Mito rubbed her eyes with her sleeves and looked off to the side, considering. She realized Madara was looking at her and she glared. She pulled out a handkerchief and toyed with it. “I am to recover them for burial.”

Hashirama thought of Itama. Looking to his side, he saw Madara’s serious expression. He was probably thinking about his lost brothers.     

“Earth burial, hmm.” Mito said thoughtfully.

“What’s with that tone? Is it strange?” Hashirama asked.

“In my clan, people are buried at sea.” Mito replied.

“So? My clan has pyres.” Madara added.

 “Hmm.” Mito said.

Madara covered his mouth, his expression angry.

Hashirama sighed. Perhaps Madara was angry to have imparted this information.

Mito ignored Madara’s reaction. “This child…” Mito said.

Madara lowered his hands. “That is not a child! That is a soldier,” Madara snarled, “A soldier that has killed one of my clan members even as my clan member killed them. Neither of them are children. To call them such is a disrespectful to their position and the lives they have lost.” In the time it took him to speak he reduced the little distance between him and Mito and had a fist wrapped around the arm holding the scroll.

Mito gripped Madara’s hand and pushed him away, getting out of his grasp. She spoke with strong emotion, “What I mean is they are children of family, and those families would want to know the fate of their children and bury them with rites. I am going to take care to retrieve them so that can be done! And you,” Mito jabbed a finger at Madara, “be sure to be careful with those clan members you have retrieved as well. Bring them back to their loved ones.”

Mito placed her kunai and scroll away before she reached into the pit. Her movements were careful as she tried to lift the Senju, but there was resistance as the bodies were locked together.

“Noisy woman,” Madara snorted. Nonetheless his expression was serious. 

Hashirama watched Mito’s work be rattled as Madara reached into the ground as well; his gloved hands gripped the fallen Uchiha. Mito tugged as he did but the bodies would not separate, tangled like unruly threads.  

“Perhaps I should help.” Hashirama offered, and put his hands together.

“No one asked you-” Madara said.

At the same time Mito said, “Please do.”

Hashirama clapped his hands together. Mokuton branches snaked out and broke the swords as easily as toothpicks and then vines extracted the pieces along with moving the limbs, detangling the bodies.

In moves that seemed almost choreographed, Mito pulled out the Senju as Madara pulled out the Uchiha.

Madara picked up the grey bag by Mito and unzipped it without a word of thanks.

“Thank you.” Mito said, glancing briefly at Madara and then at Hashirama. “How strange, you should be enemies but I am glad you two are not, it would be distracting while I am doing this. The world is better if there were more friendship and love.”

“She agrees that we’re enemies.” Madara said. 

“No, she said we’re friends.” Hashirama countered.

“That’s odd because I heard enemies. Is your hearing off?”

“I heard friendship.” Hashirama said before turning to Mito, “You knew because of our chakras? Are you Uzumaki?” Hashirama gestured at her hair. The Uzumaki were famous for their red hair as much as their sealing techniques and long lives.

“Yes.” Mito said.She retrieved a scroll from her sleeves. “Do you know him?” She looked at Hashirama hopefully. “It would help if the person is identified before I seal him.”

 Hashirama tried to swallow the lump in this throat. Hashirama’s clan was filled with at least a thousand members and he does not know them all but many he does. Butsuma was opaque in his efforts to press Hashirama into becoming the next clan leader so as a result Hashirama was pushed to know the members of his clan, especially those who were strong individuals that held power and influence within the clan. But the child pulled from the pit was not one of those influential people Butsuma had Hashirama interact with when he had started taking Hashirama seriously. Rather it was someone that Hashirama recognized as one of Itama’s playmates. He knows their family. He had made cabinets for them once.

Mito was still looking at him, expecting an answer. Her brow was crinkled in worry. She handed him a handkerchief. “Here. I could have offered it earlier but here is it now. If you want to cry wipe your face with this.”       

Hashirama raised his hand, tried to get it’s shaking under control. He took the handkerchief dabbed at his eyes. When he is no longer shaking he gave it back to Mito and said “May I borrow your brush, Mito-san?” 

Mito managed to look annoyed and embarrassed, as if Hashirama had asked her something exceedingly intimate. Still, she handed him the brush and pointed at an area of the scroll.

Hashirama took the brush with a nod of thanks. He wrote a name on the area Mito indicated. He had gotten his hand under control although his characters looked pathetically sloppy compared to the soft and carefully tapered calligraphy written there prior. He handed the brush back. 

Mito unfurled the scroll and pressed her hand onto the characters and symbols already inked there. At her touch the writing glowed and unfurled, the lines spreading like vines, reaching for the body. Upon contact, the body glowed and disappeared into the scroll. After a beat, with care and familiarity she rolled up the scroll.

“Can you help me?” She offered the scroll to Hashirama and gestured at the rest of the scrolls on her back.

“Sure.” Hashirama took the scroll and tied it securely to her back.

“Helpful,” Mito said and wrote down something on a piece of paper she had tucked in her sleeves.

Hashirama blinked in surprise.

“Hashirama, you can’t just help someone you barely know. What if you are helping out an enemy?” Madara glared up at Mito from where he was kneeled on the ground.

 “Do all Senju so easily assist an unknown possible combatant without asking questions of their own?”  Mito said, tone interrogative. “Your friend there seems to be more cautious.”

Madara looked up from where he was closing the bag. “I am also more skilled. If you did anything you would join the bodies on the ground.”

“Madara.” Hashirama said warningly.

Madara ignored this and continued working. 

“Aren’t you of the Uzumaki clan?” Hashirama asked Mito.

“And are Senju that close to Uzumaki after all? Trusting me just because I am from an allied clan? Such agreements are fragile.” Mito countered.

“I don’t think the alliance is ordinary. Besides is it just because I am Senju that you allow me to assist you?”

“Your questions are inane.” Mito replied, ignoring Hashirama’s retort. 

“Mito, why do you want to know more about Senju?”

“So she can learn how to blend in as a spy.” Madara suggested.

“So I may learn how to conduct myself as one.” Mito says.

“She admits it.”

“I am not going to pretend to be one so I can spy.” Mito retorted. “I really-”Mito paused and slipped away the paper she had.  Her face shifted to one of concentration, as if sensing something, “I have to go. At least this time I enjoyed the little freedom I had. Everyone has people they want to fight for and return to, even if it’s just themselves.” Mito said before running off.

“And that is why there is always war.” Madara said. “Winners and losers.” Madara paused, “Looks like we both lost, Hashirama. Mito collected the most bodies.”

“She did win,” At the least Hashirama agreed with that. He watched as the red spiral on the back of Mito’s obi disappeared from his sight.  

The end of the brief lull in fighting was signaled by the flares in the air. Soon Hashirama had to move his cart away and Madara had to carry his bags away as well.

Hashirama handed the bodies over to the clan members that were in charge of identifying and eventually transporting them back to be buried. Hashirama knew more people would have to be buried before the day ended.  


	2. Chapter 2

When the battle resumed, Madara went straight for Hashirama. Earlier he had said as much but he spoke it too in his actions. It said ‘we are enemies from now on.’ Madara does not hesitate in activating his Sharingan to deal accurate and dangerous attacks. Hashirama responded with raised mokuton shields, and felt his friend slipping away like vines. Hashirama paused whenever he had opportunity to land a blow on Madara. Madara does not share this mindset and whenever Hashirama hesitates he responds aggressively. Hashirama realized that his actions were only enraging Madara and with time Hashirama shifted into fighting him in earnest. Madara smiled then and they fell into a rhythm.  

The two are still fighting by the time news reached them that the battle was over. The warlord that had hired the Uchiha failed to break the defense of the Daimyo’s troops that consisted of samurai, the Senju and the Senju’s allies. Hashirama reached for Madara fter the battle but he could not succeed. The bitterness of losing walled Madara away from him and left him unable to speak to Madara of anything.

Hashirama’s goals foremost became the care of his clan. He could not help but push aside his desire to regain Madara’s friendship. ‘There will be time for mending’ he thought. ‘I am sure I can be friends with him again someday.’

\--

An exhausted Hashirama returned to Senju headquarters, whereupon Butsuma handed Hashirama a drink.

“Congratulations, son.”

Hashirama was confused to see what he suspected was pride and beneath that, relief in his father’s eyes. He looked to Tobirama, who was standing in a corner, also holding a bottle of sake. He shrugged, as if to say ‘I don’t know what to do either.’

“If you’re old enough to kill, you’re old enough to drink,” his father continued.

Hashirama hesitated.

His father was looking at him, his expectant expression changing to impatience and even anger.

Hashirama looked quickly to Tobirama, who had his own bottle raised to his lips. When Tobirama started drinking, Hashirama did as well. He drank the bottle in almost one gulp and choked on the sharp burn of it. He thought of the blood he had spilled and wondered if he could ever drink enough alcohol to absolve it.

Tobirama meanwhile, took his time in downing the drink.    

When his sons were done, Butsuma smiled, pleased. His harsh features softened. He clapped his two sons on the back, in acknowledgement. Then the moment was gone and his mouth twisted into a sharp frown again. “Hashirama,” he said, “You’ll have to assist in the process of identification and burial.” He gestured Hashirama towards the exit. “You are dismissed.”

It took Hashirama self-control to walk out of the building instead of run. His throat was still burning when he arrived at the designated clearing. Senju in civilian clothing were trying to identify the recovered bodies that were being laid out on the mats covering the ground by partially armored Senju. He could hear hushed whispers and angry shouts, soft crying and loud sobs. Hashirama felt his eyes prickle. Someone unexpected appeared into his line of vision. Hashirama had not expected to see Mito again soon but she was writing the names of identified Senju onto sheets and giving them to the living relations to lay by the bodies. Her expression was somber but she was open to those she spoke with.

When he approached her she became more alert and masked in his presence. “Hello, Hashirama-san,” she said in greeting, her voice carefully distant. “I was told to wait for you.” 

 “Please just call me Hashirama.” Hashirama said. He noticed that scrolls were no longer on her back but on a mat by her. “I hope I haven’t made you wait too long.”

 Mito shook her head slightly. “No, you have not.” She said seriously.

Hashirama placed his hands together and summoned a large and long wooden mat to cover the ground.

Mito held out a brush, her scrolls now in hand.  In a sweeping stroke she connected her scrolls and opened them in a combined summoning. Senju that had fallen in battle landed gently on Hashirama’s summoned platform all in a row.

Hashirama and Mito’s actions attracted notice as some Senju moved over to where they were and looked over the laid out bodies, desperately looking for their missing persons.

Hashirama does not know he was throwing out his hand, looking to steady himself, until Mito’s hand connected with his. He looked at her face, trying to read her expression. Hashirama loosened his grip at her serious expression but in reaction she tightened her grip. Hashirama grimaced.

She relaxed her grip. Arriving at a balance, they hold hands for a moment. Mito lets go first, to write names again.

Hashirama looked at the bodies. He tried not to linger on burnt limbs or yawning wounds. He stopped his gaze at the noticeably smallest body, perhaps a boy, not even seven. Hashirama made his measurements then formed the seals and summoned a coffin.

 The coffin appeared before him, sturdy and small. Memories rose in Hashirama’s mind. His knees buckled. He rose and wiped at his eyes. An old man, probably the small boy’s grandfather, thanks Hashirama profusely.

“I’ve seen you use that ability already but I’m still surprised,” Mito said. She sniffed and swiped at the tears that tricked down her cheeks. Her sleeves practically covered her entire face, except for her eyes.

Hashirama nodded and prepared to make another coffin. It was taller this time, for a young man. Hashirama continued forming coffins with mokuton, creating three more. He could feel exhaustion in his bones. A wound that Madara had given him in battle, pulsed.  

Mito’s voice was steady again although her eyes were still wet. “You’re really trying, aren’t you? To make coffins fit for them.” 

Hashirama nodded and closed his eyes, ready to make the next coffin. He felt a little lightheaded. Sweat dripped down his chin. When he opened his eyes he thought there would be a coffin before him but instead it was a single warped plank.

He fainted.

\--

Hashirama opened his eyes to the ocean. His parched throat itched and his head throbbed. Was he dead? Didn’t Mito tell him that’s what her clan did with the dead? Mito. Wasn’t he just with her? Now where was he? Everything was blurry.

“Hashirama? Are you alright? You overworked yourself.” A frown.

Mito. Hashirama blinked. Not the ocean but her eyes. Hashirama saw Mito’s face come into focus, she was looking down at him, a lick of her red hair was loose from her hair clips, hanging down. 

“Yes. Well I guess Madara may have stressed my chakra more than I thought.” Hashirama shrugged and then cringed as pain shocked his body.

“That friend of yours?” Mito raised her head. “He injured you significantly. You still need rest. You were out for the six hours.”

“Six hours?” Hashirama panicked. “But that means- did they get coffins and burial yet?”

“Yes.” Mito said. “And it could not be helped that some coffins did not fit their occupants. I am sure they appreciate your efforts as I did. If it is not rude I would like to ask why you modify the coffins each time. But first…” She handed Hashirama a wrapped bundle.

Hashirama opened the bundle to discover dried squid.

“Eat.” Mito handed him a waterskin.   

Hashirama obeyed and took a long drink of water. “If there is too much space the person will jostle around when they are carried to be buried.” Hashirama said after eating a few pieces of squid. He paused and squeezed the waterskin in his hand. He placed it down and considered his next words. “When my brother, Itama, was buried. I could hear him jostling in the coffin when they carried it.” He trembled.

Mito placed her hand on top of his, tried to steady him.

Hashirama continued. “I thought, ‘He’s still alive! Can’t you hear him? We have to let him out!’ but he was gone and I knew that…” Hashirama realized he was almost yelling now. There were probably tears streaming down his eyes too, “…but it sounded so loud even though it was a dull sound. Him in the coffin. It didn’t fit him because how can he when those coffins are meant for adults… a child but also a soldier. My little brother. He was buried…and he didn’t have time to grow old!” Hashirama reached into his outfit and pulled out a folded white handkerchief.

Mito made a small sound of recognition. 

“Ah, Mito-san, I forgot to give it back to you.” More tears appeared in Hashirama’s eyes.

“You can keep it.” Mito said and pushed the cloth towards Hashirama’s face.

Hashirama used it and said a muffled ‘thanks’ before he raised his head, “…I have to make sure the coffin fits because they’ll jostle around otherwise, and that’s not okay because they’ve been battered around enough…they are dead.” He paused for breath. “Right now I’m making coffins,” Hashirama touched a wound that he hadn’t healed and though of who had inflicted the wound. “But one day I’m going to create a place where kids won’t have to kill each other. And this can stop and I won’t have to do this anymore. But now doing this is the least I can do for them.” He thought of that same person, the person he shared a dream with.

Mito nodded, “And the least I could do was help retrieve them even if I couldn’t fight on the battlefield.”

“But why were you even on the battlefield with me earlier, retrieving them?”

“The Senju were losing but they won the battle in the end.” Mito paused. “Because my clan arrived and helped to turn the tide. I was not allowed to fight and I didn’t. But I did. Because I helped you then at that place.”  

Mito absently drew characters in the air with a finger. “Paper has power. And what is written on it has power too.”

Hashirama nodded and remembered what he saw Mito could do with paper. He saw the characters dance, alive and able to seal and summon. He knew that written words held power, held concepts and objects. He thought about enemies skewered by summoned swords from scroll. He thought of past treaties that were as fragile as the papers they were written on. The strength of conflict tore such things apart and wars started again.

“I am not allowed to fight because on the battlefields my body would be cut up and injured. It is more valuable if not used for battle.” Mito’s brows creased. “Treaties are drafted but often never kept. Because paper is paper and it’s the ideas behind it that have power, right? For example a piece of paper is what binds my clan to yours, and the belief in a bond of blood. A shared ancestor.”

“Yes.” Hashirama said. He leaned forward as he heard the sound of advancing footsteps.

“But what if that alone is not enough to seal an alliance? My clan assisted yours this time and-”

A hurried messenger entered the room. “Uzumaki-sama, you have to leave! We cannot delay for too long. You’ve stayed here for hours past the time we were supposed to depart!”

Hashirama raised a brow.

There was a shift in Mito’s demeanor. She closed herself into her persona again, “After you fainted I may have insisted I stay until you woke. It took hours but of course you are awake now. I have overstayed my time and I am now leaving.” With that she left with the messenger.

Hashirama was left with her handkerchief in hand and the oil of fried squid in his fingers. He feels he had gained something despite losing Madara today and many of his clan members. They could not be regained but Madara could be.   

**\--**

Hashirama’s battles with Madara become a habit as easily as their earlier meetings by the river. This was not a mutually wanted thing as the river meetings were since more often than not Madara initiated or provoked. But out of necessity for his clan, Hashirama eventually comes to see the battles as inevitable and needed. Their blows are exchanged like carefully choreographed dances. The smell of burning flesh and wood became habitual to Hashirama, so was healing himself in the midst of battle.

After battles he sterilized his injuries with alcohol. He drank it as well and the burn of it reminded him of fire, of Madara.

Hashirama would pass his teenage years with Madara in battles, using it to keep track of the days. Hashirama longed for the day these fights would no longer be needed. But for now it was needed until he achieved his dream. In peacetime, with a village of mutual support between clans, a settled place of peace, there would be time to mend. Hashirama pushed for the day. Soon he thought, soon.

\--

In addition to mokuton, Hashirama practiced healing jutsu. He desired to heal people, not make coffins for them. But he could not save those who died instantly or those that died before he could get to them.

With war, children and women died. Woman died from declining health because multiple pregnancies without significant breaks weakened their body’s chakra systems. If their babies grew up to be children, the children often died on the battlefields. Their babies often didn’t grow past childhood. Even wanted children were lost by expectant mothers hit by the stress of constant relocation and poor nutrition.

Food and water supplies weren’t stable. Wells were poisoned. Famine spread when combatants frequently burnt down each other’s crops, a mutual assured destruction of spiting oneself and the enemy.

Many times Hashirama cried until his eyes were swollen and he could not see because of the tears. Depression took hold. Hashirama built coffins for the old, the young, the fathers, the mothers, the sisters, the brothers. The dead.  Because of the battles Hashirama was now familiar with creating adult sized and child sized coffins. He was familiar with but not used to it. He never would be. He couldn’t revive the dead.

\--

One day a mournful clan member approached him. Hashirama recognized him as man that had asked him to make a cradle, months before. Hashirama had made it. He took any chance and he could to make items with mokuton that were not coffins.

“Please,” the Senju, a young man, cried through tears. The rest of his words were incoherent.

Hashirama could make out that he wanted a pair of coffins made. Shinobi were told to kill their feelings and Hashirama was often told he was terrible for crying, for showing weakness. He missed when he could run to the river for a private place to cry, as a child. His father had called it inexcusable then now it must be inexcusable for Hashirama . The young man cried and requested not one but two coffins.

Through the anguish, Hashirama could make out that the man wanted Hashirama to follow him to a place. When Hashirama arrived he could see a woman and a silent newborn lying side by side. Both were eerily still. 

When they did not move at all, Hashirama realized both were dead. Hashirama could still hear the man try to speak throughout his sobs.  “It was a hard birth…I should have dissuaded our families. Said it’s okay to not have children…her body couldn’t…”

Hashirama placed his palms together and a full sized coffin appeared. He made the move again and a heartbreakingly small coffin, even smaller than the one his brother was buried in, appeared. When Hashirama completed his task he broke down in tears. He did not cry alone. The young man cried and Hashirama cried with him. They cried for lost family.

\--

A week before his fourteenth birthday, Hashirama approached the source of a commotion and a gathering crowd.

He saw that his father was at the center. Armored guards were stading at his side. A late middle aged woman was kneeled so low in front of him that her forehead touched the ground. 

She held tightly to a boy’s pale corpse even as Hashirama saw that two Senju men were trying to pry it away from her. The crowd whispered among themselves. Hashirama listened and tried to get the context of the situation as he got closer.

“His name shall be wiped from the records.” Butsuma said.

“No, please, at least let me do the rites-” The woman tried to lower her head even more though it was impossible.

 “He was a deserter. He does not deserve a proper burial.” Butsuma replied with authority.

“I’m sorry. He’s sorry. Please-”

“You don’t have to apologize for one that is no longer part of our clan.”

“He only-”

“He stole money and rations from you before running. He abandoned and robbed you, his own mother! His captain and platoon members saw him flee before the battle.”

The woman shook her head wildly and spoke in pleading tones. “Please, this is, was the only son I have left.” She held her son tighter. His eyes bulged from bloated skin, “The older one served the clan well did he not?”

Butsuma opened his mouth to cut her off again but before he could she dived forward and wrapped her arms around his legs, still knelt at his feet.

Voices in the crowd gasped in shock.

Butsuma was momentarily stunned into silence. The woman took this chance to continue. “He took down half a dozen men before he was killed. But this son was the only one I had left, please let his soul rest in peace! My husband is dead too in the same battlefield my older son was at. I couldn’t bury their bodies! I was told it was a large battlefield with too many bodies to recover. I can’t visit them.”

One of the two Senju guards slapped her hands with a sheathed sword, trying to get her to release Butsuma. The other guard stopped him. 

She ignored the sting and sobbed into Butsuma’s leg, “Allow me to bury my son. A marked place I can visit, so I will know where he is buried at least. Please.” 

Butsuma’s voice cracked a bit although he was still rooted in place, “He brought dishonor upon you and shame upon the memory of your husband and older son. They died in battle. He ran away a coward.”

He then steeled his voice and repeated his verdict, “A worthless deserter does not deserve burial.”

Hashirama elbowed his way through the crowd to say, “He’s still just a child that died and deserves to be buried!”

Butsuma turned to look at Hashirama. His frown deepened. 

Hashirama turned to the woman, “You can bury your son. I’ll help you. I can make a coffin.”

The older woman released her grip on Butsuma. She moved to look at Hashirama, her eyes brightened but were still red from tears. “Thank you,” she said repeating it over and over as she kowtowed to the ground in front of Hashirama each time.

“Stop, please you don’t have to,” Hashirama said, alarmed. The woman stopped and returned to her son’s body, tending to the limbs so the body looked like it had a natural pose. It was too stiff. 

In his mind’s eye, Hashirama saw the coffin his brother had been buried in, an identical coffin appeared from the earth. The crowd witnessed his move, surprised voices mixed with angry murmurs.  

Butsuma’s forehead throbbed and his jaw clenched but instead of yelling at Hashirama, he said, “Assist her in preparing burial,” This was directed at the two Senju guards that had previously tried to pry the body from her.

As they left with the mother and her dead son, Butsuma turned to Hashirama, “We have to talk.”

\--

Once they were inside their house, Butsuma bunched the cloth at Hashirama’s neck and lifted him in the air. He had to lift higher as Hashirama was growing.

“That was unforgivable, to be challenged in front of so many people!” Butsuma growled through his clenched jaw.

Hashirama quickly put his palms together and created a root that tripped his father. Hashirama jumped out of his grasp. Butsuma staggered. Hashirama clapped again so stocks clamped around Butsuma’s neck and wrists, immobilizing him.

“Things will be different when I’m clan head,” Hashirama declared, his arms shaking.

Butsuma looked up at his oldest son. Unexpectedly he began to shake. Then the shakes turned to outright bitter laughter. 

Hashirama himself was immobilized by confusion and shock.

Butsuma clenched his hands from where it stuck out from the holes in the stocks. When he stopped laughing, he tsked, “You want to be clan head? You’ll need loyalty and discipline if you’re going to be clan head. If we signal weakness and let people think it’s acceptable to desert the clan, the ranks would thin. You wouldn’t make it through a day of being clan head!” Butsuma tested the restraints that held him. Not yet.” Butsuma took a look at the contraption that surrounded him before he took a breath and broke out of the stocks with a surge of chakra. “You’re getting stronger. If I were to die, you have to take my place.”

At the thought that his father would die, a sharp stab of pain goes through Hashirama’s heart. 

“As such, I must do all I can to prepare you.” Butsuma says with resolve. He rubbed his hands before offering a hand to Hashirama.

Hashirama accepted the hand, aware it was not a fist. 

\--

Hashirama had to kneel in front of the ancestor tablets at the altar, kneel the entire day as punishment. He was not allowed a break or dinner.

“See how your living descendants remember you, mark you, hold your names in these tablets. I did the right thing. I know I did, or her son would lie unmarked and she would have nothing. Her husband and son were already lost in a battlefield, unnamed, lost.”

Hashirama concentrated his stare at the tablets.

“You are fortunate to be remembered. How will I remembered? Will I do what father wants? Become the clan leader, become a warlord. If that is my fate I rather not be, if I end up a tablet on some altar I would tell my descendants to stop this bloodshed, this war. So what will you tell me that I haven’t already been lectured about? I do not want to continue the cycle of war because you, my forbearers had. You are dead and I am still here to change things and grow.”

Hashirama paused as a hunger pang hit him. He thought he saw a rug move out of the corner of his eye. Hashirama shook his head, his hunger and tiredness was making him see things. Or were the ancestors mad? What if they were coming to smack him for being impudent?

He raised his arms defensively as the rug moved towards him. Then the rug revealed itself to be an illusion. It gave way. His cousin Toka appeared where the rug had been. She was holding a bowl of dumplings.

Hashirama heart slowed down from its earlier state of alarm as Toka offered him the bowl.

“Oh, Toka. It’s you.” He smiled softly although his eyes crinkled in worry, “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“But you’ve been here for hours and you didn’t have dinner,” Toka pouted, she tried to look indignant but her cheeks just puffed adorably.

She pushed the bowl towards Hashirama, who accepted because it took both of her small hands to hold the bowl.

“Are you still sad?” Toka said, still not satisfied despite having completed her goal. She made a few seals and reestablished the genjutsu that made her appear to be a rug. At this point Tobirama walked into the room with a bowl of rice. He pretended he did not see Toka as she sneaked past him.

Tobirama seated himself next to Hashirama. As he did this Hashirama turned towards the family shrine and spoke to the tablets, asking them to excuse him. When Hashirama started eating the dumplings, Tobirama spoke.

“You shouldn’t do this so much, going against father’s wishes and breaking the rules.”

Hashirama almost choked on the food. He wanted to argue but it seemed like Tobirama had strategically began speaking when Hashirama ate as to limit replies. Hashirama quickly swallowed, “Aren’t you breaking the rules by bringing me food? I’m supposed to be punished, remember?"

“You’re the only brother I have left and I want you to live. But you need to stop being so disobedient.”

Hashirama reached for the bowl. In reaction, Tobirama drew back, “I’ll give this to you if you promise to be less argumentative.”

 “Sorry, I have another promise to keep.”

“What have you been telling the ancestors?” Tobirama asked, passing the bowl to Hashirama with a sigh.

Hashirama’s reply was muffled as he began eating. “I told them what I believe, but it is not my fault if they can’t reply.”

\--

Hashirama’s father, Butsuma Senju had died at the same time that Madara’s father, Tajima Uchiha did. The two were fighting over a strategic bridge, the control of which would have decided victory or defeat for a daimyo the two clans found themselves working on the opposite sides of. The battle rendered the bridge unusable for either members of their clan to cross and the ferocity with which they fought caused the bridge to collapse under the weight of their attacks.

Ironically, the two similar-thinking clan leaders practically worked together to destroy the bridge when they would not cooperate at all in any other respect. Battles broke out in the water below and when it was over, neither of them emerged. They were not the only ones lost and in the end many bodies could not even be recovered.

**\--**

Hashirama made the coffin for Butsuma overlarge, in his head his father is a large figure, looming and overbearing like a giant oak that blocks light from a sapling. Of course now, Hashirama was not a sapling, a child.

Hashirama wondered what Madara was going through. He imagined Madara standing before a pyre.

Funerals held, rituals undergone, and eulogies delivered, the clans moved on. In war those things could not be dwelled upon too long.

Despite his attempts to suggest Tobirama as a candidate, Hashirama was unanimously declared to be the new clan head. Quickly, Hashirama was replaced into Butsuma’s position. 

And all too soon he found out that Madara has become the head of his clan as well.

Their fights are more intense than before. With the leadership of the clan like a mountain on his back, Hashirama fought on. 


	3. Chapter 3

The magnitude of his new responsibilities seeped into Hashirama’s being, his mind and body. The hard decisions are often and his idealism sapped under the strain. This was evident with the first time he encountered a tailed beast.

The six-tail caused significant damage before Hashirama managed to stop it using mokuton.

A leveled castle and a squad lost pushed Hashirama to research on control and containment of these creatures of chakra.

He pored over his research when he was not fighting or relaxing over his hobby of keeping bonsai trees.   

In ways he was limited by the movement of his clan and could not so easily traveled where he wished. It was a while before he found his way to the territory by the whirlpools but by then he could not find the person he was looking for. Her clan members, however, give him a cache of scrolls, scholar papers about containment theories. He paid attention to the words with special care, and drank it like a man receiving water after a long drought. Clearly labeled in formal script, the scrolls said author: Mito Uzumaki.

**\--**

Shortly after Izuna’s death, the village was formed.

Madara would say that it was as if Izuna was killed so the village could be created.

Hashirama would say that there were many other deaths that led up to the village.

Madara would reply, “One mattered the most to me.”

**\--**

With the village’s founding and the decline of war, euphoria broke out and births rose. Hashirama built more cradles than coffins. He even built houses now that the village was a permanent place where houses could be built and where families could settle.

Hashirama did not think starting a family of his own could be a reality. He does not think he would settle anywhere except on the battlefield, the earth where his trees sprung from. That one day he would be lowered into the earth. He does not expect have any of this before dying.  

Mito changed that. 

**\--**

Hashirama saw Mito again after several winters. He could now fit into his father’s clothes.  Hashirama saw, that like him, she was taller and her hair longer since they last met. They met again in a courtyard lined with trees.

Upon seeing him she had raised her arms, sleeves touching, before making a small bow. He could see the droplets of water that were falling from her sleeves that clung to her wrists. The muscle of her arms and her strong, graceful fingers. He realized he should look away and that he was being rude, still he blurted out, “Your sleeves are soaked.”

Mito rose from her bow but her sleeves still covered her face slightly. He could see the outline of her mouth.

“It was raining.”

He remembered her eyes as a clear harbor but now they were reddened.

“Here.” Hashirama said, and pulled out the handkerchief she had given him those years ago. He offered to her. It was still quite white despite signs of old bloodstains and the loss of some fibers.

Mito took it back and embraced Hashirama tightly. He hugged her back. When she pulled away, he was left with the scent of salt.

“I have not seen you in a long time, Mito-san.” Hashirama said. He gestured at the guest building. “Perhaps you would like to rest a while after your long journey before we could sit down and catch up over tea?”

“Yes.” Mito followed him inside.

When they were both seated and drinking tea, Hashirama spoke, “I have not seen a trace of you in a long time, Mito-san, but for your research work.  The papers are wonderful but I much prefer your company.” He smiled. “You are quite a dedicated scholar.”

Mito sighed. “Depending on you, those papers may no longer be attributed to me.”

“Huh?” Hashirama held his tea precariously. 

“Those scrolls were written by Mito Uzumaki, not Mito Senju.”

The tea spilled into his palms but Hashirama barely registered it.  

“I am here to marry you.” Mito said. “My grandfather would discuss this with you when our clans meet later tonight but I just wanted to tell you first myself.”  She continued sipping her tea calmly.

\--

The marriage was planned and undergone within a week.

Hashirama sipped the wine from three different cups. He tried to not take too large sips but Mito raised an eyebrow. The valuable combs and other decorations atop her head seemed to unbalance her as she tilted her head, her painted red lips upon the cups. 

The wine is then offered to their respective families. Like this, the bond between them and their families are sealed.

When the ceremony was over, in their bedroom, Mito removed her shoes and the white makeup that covered her face.

Hashirama settled at the other side and felt what could be described as shyness. He scrambled for words.  “I have wondered about something since, well, last week, when you arrived here… ”

“Yes?”

“I think you were crying and I have thought about it often since and …I wanted to know why you were crying.” Hashirama rumpled the blankets in his hands.

“When I was traveling to Konoha, to stay for good, I brought my family’s ancestor tablets, five generations worth. The tablets were very old, and perhaps one of them was connected to that time of the shared ancestor before the Senju and Uzumaki split.” Mito worked away at removing the clips and ornamentations in her hair. “I lost them.”

Mito inclined her head to look at Hashirama. Underneath the blanket her foot connected with his leg. “Your shoes are still on.”

“Oh.” Hashirama said sheepishly. He took off his shoes before slipping his feet back under the covers.

“There were shinobi bandits and they made off with the chest the tablets were in along with another chest that was just full of scrolls and ink. While those could be replaced easily the tablets cannot be.  My clan members have told me that the spirits of my ancestors have protected me and them during the journey and would have sacrificed themselves as tablets so that we may arrive in Konoha. I still felt lost, then.  But now I am in this strange new place and the past is gone, you are here with your dream, this new thing.” Mito smiled. Her hair was now entirely free.

“I see.” Hashirama said. He smiled back at her. “Then with this new beginning I will try my best to make you happy and you won’t feel sorrow again.”

“Quite a statement.” Mito said. “Then I say the same and make it so you will have fewer reasons to cry.” She leaned toward him.

Hashirama closed in the distance and kissed her.

When they broke from the kiss, Mito said, “If you are interested in the tailed beasts, we have plenty of time to research together.”

\--

The next day Hashirama worked at making tablets. He sculpted pieces of wood himself, using tools. It was different but he compared sculpting tools to the pruning tools he used to tend and trim his bonsai trees but he still brought in the same care and concentration.

Hashirama was almost done and raised a brush as if to write, before he paused and realized that he did not know what to write. In this moment Mito walked into his workroom.

He turned to see her and said, “I was working on making new tablets,” Hashirama scratched the back of his head nervously, “as a surprise but it’s unfinished…” He saw a strange look on Mito’s face. He could not quite understand it. “But if you don’t like it then I can stop and-”

Mito had closed the distance between them and placed a silencing finger against Hashirama’s lips. She wrapped her free hand around Hashirama’s that held a brush. He lets her guide his hand. Mito lowered her finger and the two write carefully on the tablets. When they are done, they put the tablets into the cabinet together and Mito’s parent’s tablets are placed next to Butsuma’s tablet.

**\--**

“I do not think there is more powerful a vessel than humans.” Mito said as she wrote a single character onto a scroll. “Stronger than scrolls, or pots, or mountains. Humans are able to hold memories, pain, love, sorrow, and secrets.” She moved her brush away. “There. Now can you write it again yourself and mold the chakra?”

Hashirama nodded and wrote the character onto his own palm. The light presence of the ink underscores the years of collaborative research and months of trials that have gone into its creation.       

\--

Hashirama tended his regained friendship with Madara carefully as if it were a delicate bud that would die at the slightest touch of frost. Hashirama thought the friendship stronger but many times it was in such a state. Konoha was also such and while Hashirama tended to the newly found village he could not exert so much effort for Madara. He still tried, for it was the friendship he longed to rekindle.

But he thought Konoha more vulnerable than Madara. He worked over sorting alliances, and the news of giant beasts.  

For the new village, peace was like an aphrodisiac.

Hashirama was lost in his craft, so intent on forming a cradle he does not sense Madara walking into his workshop.

He broke out of his trance when Madara’s hand landed on the cradle he had just summoned.

“Hashirama,” he said in greeting.

“Madara!” Hashirama returned the greeting jovially. “Do you like it? I added little fishes because the soon to be parents wish for their future child to take on the job of fishing rather than fighting.”

“Hm.” Madara said in a tone of mild approval. Or disapproval. Hashirama wasn’t sure which. 

“Speaking of fishing, how is the Naka River? Is it rather bountiful?” Hashirama asked as he opened a drawer below the desk the cradle was on top of. “Perhaps you should settle down by there like your fellow clan members. Find someone to marry, start a family!”

Madara shot a withering ‘don’t tell me what to do’ glare at Hashirama. “I have no interest in that.” He scoffed as Hashirama pulled out paint from the opened drawer. “Peace has dulled their senses and made them complacent, indulgent…” He pointedly glared at Hashirama’s painting supplies.

Hashirama noticed and offered Madara a brush. “Perhaps you would like to try? The paint is especially vibrant and easy to apply as Mito devel-”

“No!” Madara interrupted.

“But you would paint exceptionally good designs with the use of Sharin-”

“Don’t even say it!” Madara released his grip on the cradle to lean in close to Hashirama. “I’ve used these eyes to kill countless people, how dare you suggest I use it for such a thing?”

Undisturbed, Hashirama responded. “This ‘thing’ is of importance, these cradles are for the next generation. Kids who, because of our realized dream, would no longer have to slay each other. I know you killed. I’ve killed using mokuton but I am now choosing to use it to make cradles!” Realizing that his voice had gotten too loud and his face too close to Madara’s, Hashirama backed away and ended quietly. “And I’ve seen you use your Sharingan when sewing clothes you know…”

 Madara turned away so Hashirama could not see his face. Madara’s shoulders heaved but Hashirama was unsure of what emotion Madara was experiencing.

“Our…Our dream?”

Hashirama dropped his supplies gently and moved closer to Madara. He saw that the Uchiha had the cradle in his two hands.

“There was only one person I wanted this dream for.” Madara whispered. “This peace feels like an insult to Izuna! He doesn’t get to have any of this!” Madara was at the edge of a rant, his voice rising.

Hashirama hazarded a hand on Madara’s shoulder.

“I don’t remember my brothers that much,” Madara continued. “The older ones that died when I was young.  I don’t remember them that much. But Izuna was different. Izuna, I held as a baby. Izuna, I carried on my back.” 

Madara traced the outline of the cradle gently, lost in thought.

Hashirama was surprised. Madara was never too open about Izuna. But perhaps the pain of missing Izuna opened up Madara now. To speak of him to keep him in this world.

“Izuna could never sleep in a cradle. He cried whenever he was place in one. I ended up carrying him around on my back, a piece of cloth typing him to me. He never cried then.” Madara laughed, devastatingly and softly. “Until he grew up and could crawl and it was too embarrassing to be carried around all the time. Then he could walk and he could walk away from me. I think I shared the clearest vision with him when I carried him on my back, when he could look over my shoulder. Because what I saw in front of me, he saw as well.”

Hashirama did not resist when Madara shrugged his hand off.

“Maybe Izuna could have been fine if he and I continued looking in the same direction.” Madara turned around to face Hashirama. “Maybe if I hadn’t started looking in the same direction as you did.”

The confession startled Hashirama. “We can still look forward together, to the future,” he said softly. 

“I am not so sure.” Madara turned away. “I think I would rather follow my own path than yours.”

\--

Days later Madara left the village he named Konoha. Half a day later he tried to return to the outskirts of Konoha and end it with the Kyuubi.

\--

“This is a contest, Hashirama. Whoever gains total control of the Kyuubi wins. Of course if you lose, I will destroy the village once and for all.” Madara said, his Sharingan eyes bright with hatred.

“It’s Konohagakure! Please, Madara, you were the one to name it!” Hashirama argued and tried to dissuade Madara but soon it was apparent Madara would only speak in the language of battle. The two fought in a dance as Hashirama tried to guide the battle away from Konoha.

Using mokuton, Hashirama tried to subdue but Madara fought fiercely at anything Hashirama tried. Hashirama decided he could not subdue he had to seize.

Hashirama moved in close to the Kyuubi, seal at hand. At contact, the Kyuubi shook awake.

Hashirama allowed himself a grim smile now that the Kyuubi was free from Madara’s control but it was enraged still and sure to lash out at anyone close. He gave himself some distance. It took hours to get to this point but he had not stopped the two yet.

Madara stayed upon the thrashing Kyuubi, trying to meet its eyes again. He turned his head, his expression surprised, a moment before her arrival. 

Mito wielded a calligraphy brush. The characters on her exposed stomach glowed and the colossal figure of the Kyuubi disappeared into her small frame. 

“Uzumaki,” Madara hissed. “You haven’t changed, still barging in. You won the contest again, huh?” His eyes flash wildly.

Chakra shrouded Mito like a cloak of tails, the chakra bubbled and lashed at Madara.  

Madara ran.

“Mito,” Hashirama whispered.

Mito gripped Hashirama’s hand and glanced at the character written. “Do not lose him,” she said.

Hashirama nodded.  

Hashirama does not know whether he was chasing Madara or being led by him when he followed. He allowed himself a little relief when reinforcements, members of clans he worked hard to create alliances with, appeared and flanked Mito.

\--

The reinforcements do not catch up and in the end it was just Hashirama and Madara.

Hashirama returned to the village alone.  

\--

Mito said, “We won. But it feels like we have lost.”

“Yes.” Hashirama said.

“He is dead?”

“Yes.”

\--

Hashirama cried into Mito’s sleeves, in the rain. They mourned Madara together. It was not long before they were cold and soaked.  Eventually they go inside. She slipped out from her kimono, and wrapped herself in their blankets. He followed her. They do not emerge for many hours.

\--

 When Mito told him the news of her pregnancy he made a cradle for his own child.

\--

Hashirama tied the string securely around the stick that would serve as scaffold for a still growing tree.

He looked up to see Mito smile in approval.

“Now all that’s left to do is watering.” Hashirama said. He turned to look for the watering can. He did not remember where he had left it.

A splash behind him caused him to turn around. “Did you find it…?” Hashirama looked at Mito then at the ground by her feet.

“My water broke.” Mito said as orange chakra crept out of her.

\--

The Kyuubi broke free and Konoha became a battlefield.

Hashirama returned from the fight to his wife and a newborn daughter. Others are not so fortunate.  

In the aftermath Hashirama built houses to replace the ones destroyed by the Kyuubi’s attacks. Those he could replace. Lives he could not.

Hashirama was a now father.  From clan leader to Hokage, and now a father. While there were now newly made widowers, widows and orphans.  

The villagers throw him spiteful looks but because he was the Hokage they keep their hatred low key. They are more obvious towards Mito. That they do not bother to hide well. As the vessel of the Kyuubi they blame her for the attack. Jinchuriki , she is called. Power of human sacrifice, and she was sacrifice and sacrificer.  

After the houses, Hashirama made coffins. Thirteen for each fatality. He bits his lip to hold back tears. He was no longer a child that could cry by the river. He was now a carefully watched leader, not a child who was allowed a secret place to be alone. In his head he hears the voice of his deceased father say, ‘You said things would be different when you’re clan head.’

Hashirama only cried once he was alone in the room he shared with Mito. They cried for the dead. Their child would share her birthday with the day of many deaths. 

The council of elders that presided over Konoha, a council that Hashirama had set up, agreed with each other that Mito must not be allowed to become pregnant again. They insisted it be a matter of safety, and when they appeal to Hashirama they say it is also for her health. She survived because she is Uzumaki but do you think she would survive it a second time?

Hashirama wanted to protest and he would have but Mito accepted their decision and bid him to not argue.

Daily she drank a contraceptive tea blend.  

\--

Their daughter was a source of happiness for Hashirama. Time spent raising his daughter took away the poison of political drama, navigating treaties and territories. Konoha was no longer one of a kind as new hidden villages sprung up.

Her hair was brown and straight like Hashirama’s but she had her mother’s green-blue eyes. The eyes filled with tears as she got older and realized it was not common to have her parents and clan members attend her birthdays but no friends her age.

“Why won’t they attend my birthday? I don’t know why I’m bothering to make cards when only my clan members ever attend.” She looked at Mito and Hashirama, “It’s weird to only have Senju at my birthday, isn’t the village supposed to be one big family? Other people could attend too.” She was standing in her parent’s bedroom, writing birthday party invitation cards on a desk. Mito stood by to correct her form and to correct letters if she needed to. Hashirama was on his lunch break, choosing to spend it with his wife and daughter.

She paused, “except maybe Uchiha, Uncle Tobirama said they would cause trouble.”

Hashirama lost the grip on his chopsticks. There was a ‘plunk’ as a mushroom dropped into his soup. Some flecks of airborn soup fell on his open paperwork. 

 “Oops,” the girl remembered she wasn’t supposed to say Uchiha around her father, he always acted weird afterwards.

“It’s alright, continue working on those invitations. When they see how wonderful the calligraphy is, they will be sure to attend to see who has such elegant writing,” Hashirama says with assurance, before rising, “I will definably be at your birthday party but papa’s break has run out and he must return to his office for Hokage business okay?”

“Okay.”

Hashirama felt his composure crumbling. He packed away his things and hugged his daughter goodbye. He still left a bit too quickly.

When Hashirama’s daughter was sure he was gone, she touched her own face and when she inspected her finger she found a tear that she knew she had not shed. She says to her mother, “Why does papa react like that? Does he hate Uchiha or something?”

“No,” Mito replied, “It is the opposite.”

“Oh,” she says at the vague answer. She nodded and returned her attention to the invitation cards with renewed rigor. Her brow creased in forced concentration, she was trying to distract herself. After a few minutes she says, “Is it true, mama? This boy said it’s my fault, or it was yours…” Her grip on her brush tensed. She was holding it like a kunai.

“It’s not your fault, dear.”

“He’s always saying that and how he hates me forever and will never be my friend.” The force she was putting on her brush caused it to splatter on the paper. “He doesn’t have parents while I have you and papa.” Her face reddened with anger, tears formed at the center of her eyes. “But he shouldn’t say bad things about my parents because he doesn’t have them!”

“He shouldn’t. But try to understand how he might be lonely, without parents. Treat people with love and kindness even if they are not so kind to you.”

Mito’s daughter made a frustrated sound, but eventually nodded. “I’m glad I have you and papa,” she hugged Mito.

 “And I am glad to have you.” Mito replied. When her daughter looked over her shoulder to look at the invitation papers, Mito broke from the embrace to look over the work as well. Mito pointed out an incorrect letter, “that person might not attend your birthday party if you spell their name wrong.”

Her daughter gets a new sheet of paper to write the invitation on and was so focused on the task she does not feel the tear at the edge of her cheek. For the second time that day, someone had cried on her.

 --    

The day an enemy shinobi had slipped into the village, Hashirama and Mito’s daughter made her first kill. Hashirama found out when he saw his bloodied daughter in the house with a blond-haired boy that was helping her stand.  

“This isn’t my blood, father.” She says when she sees the disturbed look on her father’s face. She turned to the boy by her side and grinned at him, “How was that? You can’t possibly hate me anymore, I saved your butt!”

The boy flinched at her loud voice, his expression filled with equal parts terror and awe, “Thanks for saving my life. Can I go…now?”

She loosened her grip hesitantly, “You’ll be at my birthday party, right?” Her tone held such shyness it was surprising she had killed someone earlier. 

The boy nodded, his blond locks bobbing wildly. He thanks her again before leaving, sprinting out of sight.

She moved toward her father and held his hand and leaned on him slightly. She looked up at him. She was slightly taller than most children her age and resembled her parents in miniature. Her sea green eyes like Mito’s but more solid, while her brown hair tied in a small ponytail was like Hashirama’s, but longer and darker in shade. She caught the sorrow in Hashirama’s features, and hers, like his, turned into a frown. She looked down and squeezed his hand in a comforting gesture, but her palm was still slippery with sweat and blood. “I want to thank you and mama.”

“Thank,” Hashirama questioned, his voice cracked. 

His daughter nodded, “I thought it was boring when you and mama told me to study anatomy charts, to learn how the body worked and how to best heal it,” she shrugged. “But I realized that the charts also showed how to find the areas to target to kill quickly too.”

Hashirama, quiet and still, listened as his daughter explained that she was covered in so much blood because she had severed an important artery that caused the assassin to bleed out.

Besides in appearance, she could be like Hashirama in attitude. She had rebelled by training to kill instead of heal as Hashirama had trained mokuton to enclose instead of kill in his youth. She was her father’s daughter. They were contrary like that. 

“…but that’s love isn’t it? Making me learn those charts even though it was boring? It’s why I am alive and the assassin is dead. So you and mama tell me to do things because it’s for my own good like when I’m told to eat vegetables to grow tall...” She turned to look at Hashirama again, “Papa, are you listening?”

Hashirama looked at his only daughter, who was not yet seven years old, standing by him bloodied and smiling, having killed someone. Her words, ‘isn’t that love?’ echoed in his mind and he thought he heard Butsuma’s voice from a time long ago. 

\--

Hashirama told her to bathe and change out of her bloodied outfit. She nodded and walked to her room, probably to get fresh clothes. 

Hashirama tried to collect his thoughts. He retrieved a bottle of sake from the kitchen.

When she returned, dressed in a clean white yukata and without a trace of blood on her face she appeared serene.

Hashirama asked, “How did it feel to kill the person?”

“Necessary,” his daughter replied, “It was him or my classmates.” 

Hashirama does not know how to respond with words so he held out his bottle of sake to her. She declined it politely and said she would rather like some afternoon tea right now. She left the room.

Hashirama drank his sake alone.

\--

Later at an emergency meeting, Hashirama listened as Tobirama spoke to the council elders.

“We need a division set up to do special missions for the village, to insure that incidents like this will not happen again,” Tobirama insisted at the meeting with the village council and Hashirama.

“The assassin’s intent was to kill my niece, the Hokage’s child and any other shinobi children, targeting the futures of our village instead of the adults.” Tobirama opened up a scroll. “The children have to be trained to fend for themselves. Having a settled permanent village does not mean peace.”

Tobirama was interrupted in the middle of presenting his blueprint of an Academy when Hashirama’s head hit the table he was sitting in front of. Hashirama rose but his forehead was as red as his face.

“Hashirama, are you drunk?” Tobirama asked. 

Hashirama does not even try to deny this. Instead he said, “Tobirama, I would have liked you to secede our father. Instead I was clan head. Now, I would like you take my place when I am gone.” Hashirama goes not note the sounds of surprise or approval. He thought, ‘I am getting older if my child is old enough to kill.’

\--

“She’s grown up.” Mito says, when Hashirama told her the news that their daughter had killed an assassin. Mito had already heard the news from half a dozen other sources throughout the day, the villages having momentarily stopped treating her as a pariah when her child had killed an assassin that could have killed other children.

Hashirama nodded, understanding Mito’s meaning. Their daughter had taken a life and did not feel any remorse, “If we could have another child…”

‘One that still needs us,’ he thought, ‘one that did not grow so quickly as children that grew in a time of war did.’  

Mito looked at him with sadness and exasperation, “It is perhaps too late for that, Hashirama.” She held Hashirama in her embrace, caged his body with her own. They held each other, both lost in thought until Mito said slowly, “There’s always grandchildren.”  

Hashirama shifted to look at her eyes, “Grand…children?” 

Smiles broke out on both their expressions.

Hashirama allowed himself to look to the future with hope.  


End file.
